Crescendo
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: <html><head></head>"Makishima doesn't worry that the girl will be the one to pick up the weapon and follow him. There was only ever going to be one person with him, here at the end." Makishima conducts his symphony down to the last note.</html>


It is not that Makishima Shogo is unafraid.

He does have an imagination. With the lack of anywhere else on which to focus his mind he has thought about all sorts of things, all the dark terrors of life and death both, has kept himself awake for nights on end with shaking horror until even the instinctive fright has become, if not lesser, at least more familiar and less crippling. It is not that he doesn't fear death; it is that the fear is almost a comfort, the closest thing to the constancy of a friend he has ever experienced.

All that imagination has served him well. The fear rising slow in his mind warned him of what was coming, when his balance wavered from blood loss and his shaking hand clicked on a useless trigger. Without medical attention the wound bleeding continuously out into his pale clothing will kill him, and he does not have time for medical attention now. It's that, more than thoughtlessness, that lets the weight of the gun fall from his chilling fingers to land alongside the girl.

He doesn't worry that she will be the one to pick up the weapon and follow him. There was only ever going to be one person with him, here at the end.

The music starts as he stumbles through the stalks of hyperwheat, his legs resistant to the motion until he's more hobbling than running, crippled into the limitations of old age by impending death rather than by the passage of time. His lifespan can be measured in minutes, now, perhaps an hour at most before the warmth of his blood has spilled out to fade into the darkening air, but he moves anyway, instinctive flight to ensure the predator keeps coming. He can hear the sound of strings, rising into audibility in the back of his head, a stored memory of music rising to the surface now as his thoughts become as unruly as his body.

_Everyone is alone_.

There is an instinctive panic rising in Makishima's head, shaking adrenaline as his body tries to pump a last surge of energy into fading heartbeats. It just makes his breath come faster, his blood spill more quickly.

_Everyone is empty_.

Even his body heat is failing him. The sun is still slanting color across the sky, splashing gold out over the hyperwheat, but Makishima's hands are as chill as if he is in the midst of a snowstorm. He hasn't been able to feel his feet since he left the truck behind him, whether from injury or bloodloss or both, it hardly matters.

_People no longer have need of others_.

His breathing is coming hard, sticking in his throat and burning in his lungs. There's a trickle of blood creeping across his skin, catching in his hair and going cool and damp against his skin.

_You can always find a spare for any talent_.

He can hear Kogami Shinya running behind him, some impossible distance away but drawing closer to _here_ with every step. Their steps are falling into rhythm, two of Shinya's long strides for every stuttering stumble of Makishima's. Makishima's heart is racing out of pace, his footsteps faltering into an echo instead of a lead, as if every motion they both make bleeds more of his existence away into Shinya's.

_Any relationship can be replaced_.

Maybe there could have been someone else behind him, another Inspector or a different Enforcer Makishima could have formed into the pursuer in this game. Makishima's thoughts are spinning; he can't recall, cannot even drag up the faces of the possibilities. There is only Shinya, in his thoughts and coming up behind him so quickly Makishima misses a step, falls forward and barely catches himself on hands and knees.

_I had gotten bored of that_.

His imagination is failing him, going still until everything feels like fate, until his collapse is preordained, the delay a necessary part of the chase. His vision is blurring, smearing everything into a golden blur as liquid drips from his skin to splatter on the ground, blood thinned pale by the sweat of overexertion. The color soaks into the earth, marks the world with a trail crystal-clear for Shinya to follow, and Makishima smiles, raw with satisfaction even as he gasps for air, as he pushes himself back upright, closes his hand back over the red-stained wound so he can stumble up the hill before him.

_But for some reason_…

The music is swelling louder in his head, blurring into reality until Makishima thinks maybe Shinya is hearing it too, perhaps it is the world resonating with the notes and not just his thoughts. The sun is sinking in time with the sound, light hitting the back of his neck and casting his features into shadow as he pushes up the hill. He can feel Shinya running behind him, can feel the hyperwheat parting around the detective as he runs with the smooth efficiency Makishima can no longer muster.

_...the thought that someone other than you might kill me never occurred to me_.

The ground is jerking up to meet him; Makishima has to throw a hand out to push it away, to keep himself upright as the world spins hard around him. Fate is coming for him, now, hard on his heels and hard in his breathing. He can see Shinya behind him without turning, can feel the other man dropping to a knee, the echoed warmth in his palm as Shinya's fingers fit into the bloody print of Makishima's own. Makishima's hands are on his knees, his elbows locked out to keep him upright; then Shinya lifts his head, pushes to his feet, and Makishima rises in imitation, his spine straightening for the last time. Notes surge loud in his head, drop his head back so he's staring up as the light fades from the sky.

He can feel his knees give way as the numbness climbs higher in his blood. He drops hard, with no attempt to catch himself, the impact rocking his head forward so he's staring at the ground for a moment. But he's not seeing with his eyes, all he's seeing is Shinya coming up the hill behind him, as clear in his head as if he's borrowing the other man's vision in place of his own. When he tips his head back his eyes fall shut without any thought, his attention narrowing to the oncoming sound of Shinya's footsteps.

_He's going to make it_.

The cold is seeping out into Makishima's fingers, icing over the joints of his arms and promising oncoming death, but it's okay, now, Shinya is going to make it in time. The relief catches at Makishima's lips, sighs out of his lungs as if that breath will truly be his last. The wind drags over his face, gusting through his hair like a touch and against his mouth as if to force another inhale into his lungs. Makishima lets his head fall back farther, stretches his arms out wide in offering, as if he's summoning Shinya's presence behind him with the movement.

The sun sinks below the horizon. The shadow on Makishima's face drops over the rest of his body, sweeps out behind him to curl over the detective standing behind him. He opens his eyes without turning around, stares up at the darkness in the sky overhead as he listens to the even rhythm of Shinya's breathing falling into counterpoint to his own ragged inhales.

"Say, what do you think, Kogami." His voice is still level, purring rich in his throat. There's no question of Shinya shooting him while he's talking; Makishima can still hear the music rising to its finale in his head, filling the space between his words and Shinya's breathing. "After this, will you be able to find a replacement for me?"

There is a beat of silence but for the notes pouring in Makishima's awareness, counting out the last moments of his life in smooth measures. The wind shifts direction, carries the illusion of Shinya's body heat to curl around Makishima's skin.

"Well, I sure hope not."

Shinya doesn't sound angry. He sounds sincere, calm and level with all the inevitability of this culmination, and his words are an echo of Makishima's own thoughts. It makes Makishima smile, that synchronicity, as the music rises to its crescendo in his head, as Shinya's arm lifts to align the barrel of his gun with the back of Makishima's head. Neither of them speak as the notes climb to one last height, as true pleasure draws Makishima's smile wide on cold lips. Shinya waits until the last notes have dropped off into silence, until there is not even the last dying resonance to drown out the whisper of the wind around them.

Everyone dies alone, men say, but Makishima Shogo dies with Kogami Shinya.


End file.
